You hated the
dovecote &

its confusion
of ladybirds

that bit & stunk
& mother

loved so dearly.
You snuck

foxglove
in with the feed &

of it they ate &
we carried them

to the tailwater
wrapped limp

in gauzy dresses
& watched them

flutter dead down
river. What was

so goddamn easy
about watching,

about intimacy,
brother? &

after was hushed
like a small snail

suddenly stuck
to my knuckle

—too easy
to brush off

with no stone perch
of anvil,

no grip of lock
and dam.

Meg Matich

Two-hundred and twenty-five
               at the slaughtering of sheep
for vellum.

Humble ones, it was your body
               that herded
you to the basement
in the monkery. I was never

this sick before. You didn’t

have the ability to conceptualize,
               or the dignity
of a soul.          Strings plucked, later,

bowed; water cascading from a clepsydra.
Father Mark drove you

here: into the humidified
stench of blood, the under-mill.

 

Meg Matich